Stammering
by Delicious Mud Pie
Summary: This should be rated G, but I feel ashamed of writing such a clean fic. This is my shortest whole story EVER. You will hate it. I promise. But read it anyway.


I started this story with no plot in mind. I don't own Pokémon so leave me alone you crack head.   
  


Stammering  
  


  
All the talking and the music which filled the room like a gentle strumming in the abyss faded away as she walked into the room. The man with the mask, like the Phantom of the Opera, couldn't contain himself as she began to talk with a group of ladies in the corner.   
  
He finally got his legs to do his bidding, and he strode across the ballroom floor to her. His shoes would have clicked along the hardwood floor, but the noisiness which was included with such a gala prevented it from being heard. His heart, however, seemed as loud as thunder crackling overhead as his stride became more determined, as determination was necessary to keep himself from turning away in fear.  
  
_She won't recognize me_, he consoled himself.  
  
He took a deep breath as he tapped her on the shoulder. Her hair cascaded across her shoulders in large, bouncy curls that could have floated to the ceiling if it wasn't for the hair spray involved in keeping them that way. The masked man had to mentally keep his hand back from touching one of the curls as it brushed her smooth shoulders. It was also difficult from keeping his tapping finger from lingering on her shoulder. It was so soft, so inviting. Even more tantalizing than the prospect of her curl, as he'd already had a taste of it.  
  
The girl turned around. Her eyes glittered with the innocence of enjoyment of the event, as it wasn't like anything she'd been to before.   
  
She was stunning--the way her bangs had been layered to frame her face was absolutely enchanting, and he couldn't take his eyes off her.  
  
she finally said, growing uncomfortable under the masked man's stunned gaze.  
  
Would you like to dance? he stammered raspily, holding out his hand to her.  
  
she smiled.  
  
The smile. Oh, she was beautiful before, but the height of beauty for all human beings is known when they smile. Even if a smile is ugly at first glance, the glow and projection of one's ebullient aura makes it beautiful.  
  
The masked man gulped as he put her hand in his. It was tiny, delicate, and beautiful, like the rest of her. He knew he couldn't let himself get so hung up on her. She wasn't his to love.  
  
He put his other hand on her shoulder and pulled her further inward on the dance floor. He whirled her around with all the majesty of a pro, and she threw her head back and laughed as nearly everyone stopped to look at the two--the masked man who was whisking his gorgeous partner around the floor with the stride and ease of the wind itself.   
  
The crowd around them seemed to blur like an undefinable magic, and the music seemed to take shape in the meshed colors which resulted in their patterned spinning.   
  
Do I know you? the girl asked as the music neared its end. You're the best dancer I've ever met.  
  
The masked man laughed and did not answer, half his smile becoming visible from behind the mask. He wouldn't speak, or she would recognize him.  
  
I must know who you are, she blinked. You can't leave me hanging.  
  
He merely twirled her once again, then set her down as the song ended. Applause thrust its way toward them from the crowd, like a wave of approval from self-designated critics. But they were unimportant.  
  
The masked man looked down at his counterpart, and she touched his mask, wishing to take it off. He grabbed her hand gently, and pulled it away, kissing it before placing it at her side. He then closed his eyes and proceeded give her a concise but gentle kiss on her lips. His own lips tingled as he pulled away from her, and life drizzled into a bout of pure slow motion as he looked at the surprised look on her face. He wondered if it was a pleasant surprise.  
  
You were wonderful, he whispered into her ear.   
  
Her eyes widened as she _did_ recognize the man before her. She opened her mouth to reveal his name, but he put a finger to her lips.  
  
I lo-- he began, his heart racing as he prepared to confess the love which had coursed through his veins, the love which had shook his soul to its roots, the love which had utterly taken hold of him.   
  
But he never got the chance. Fuzziness encapsulated the world as a figure burst through a window on the roof, then swung down to the chandelier.  
  
Say good night to the lady, the invader sniggered. He wasn't anyone worth mentioning.  
  
the masked man shouted loudly, then he gathered his dancing partner into his arms.  
  
But his attempts at shielding her were too little too late. The woman in front slipped out of his arms, then turned her back and dissipated into the air, as did the invader. She didn't wave goodbye. She vanished without regard to the masked man.  
  
the masked man shouted, falling to his knees. My love! You can't leave me now!  
  
The crowd around them wept for their love, still spinning, ever spinning.  
  
Brock sat bolt upright for what seemed to be no reason at all. His heart was pounding as it had been in his dream, but the faint call of crickets told him that it was still in the middle of the night. Dawn wasn't even a twinkle in the night's eye yet, and the stars throbbed with the rhythm of Brock's head as he tried to breathe off his panic.   
  
His head slowly whirled around to face his two companions which traveled with him. He gulped, then quietly unzipped his sleeping bag. He was sleeping in nothing but sweats, and late night cold ate at him as soon as he escaped the warmth of the bag.  
  
He walked sleepily over to one of the bags his friends slept in, then knelt down before it. He looked at Misty as she slept for a moment, memorizing her face as she slowly breathed, still entranced in the escape which was slumber.  
  
Brock put a finger to her cheek, then allowed himself to replace a strand of hair which had fallen lazily across her mouth back into the rest of her hair where it belonged. He touched her cheek and let his fingers linger there for a moment. She opened her mouth a little to take a better breath in her sleep, and Brock resisted the urge to quickly run back in fear of her waking up.   
  
Sleep well, my angel, he sighed, then crawled back over to his designated area. Maybe he'd have a better dream this time around.  
  
  
***********This is THE shortest story I've ever written. I just wrote it to take out my frustration of not being able to sign in on Fanfiction.net. And since my other story is gonna be conformist AAMR, JAJR and all, I had to balance it out with this. It's BAMR. Me like BAMR. BAMR good. BAMR cute. My friend and I were drawing BAMR pictures. I drew the faces, she drew the clothes, it was great. They were really cute. I drew a couple of pics of Brock in his boxers too. And one pic of Brock and me. Am I weird? You bet your bippy I am.  



End file.
